


Gotham Untold

by Warrior_of_Loyalty



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, British!Gotham, Eventual!Nygmobblepot, F/M, Het, Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn, Usual Gotham antics, Violence, blood mention, comical violence, gobblepot, kidnap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-09-07 02:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16845079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warrior_of_Loyalty/pseuds/Warrior_of_Loyalty
Summary: Gotham but re-written from the very beginning.Gotham City. Alive, close to sentient. Her toxic haze, a two-way powerful pollution. The more she infects her citizens, the more they spread her disease. Mid-Town. Gotham's Laugh. Mirror-faced. Goosebumps. Consequences be damned. Canon be damned.HEAVY SPOILER WARNINGS FROM THE GET GO.Season Count: One.  (WIP)Chapter Four now up!





	1. Riddled with Oswald

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



> Well, hello there dear reader, It took me about a week to write this chapter, hopefully the next chapter will come easier. Please do comment, I love to hear your thoughts! This work was Inspired by irisbleufic and her wonderful writing! 
> 
> Stuck for ideas?  
> "Hello Warrior, I liked the part where_________"  
> "I don't think this works because________"  
> "Oh. Fap Material!" (I'm a smut writer and proud, I've done my job!) 
> 
> Chapter Content Warnings: Self-torture, Masturbation, Mental Health, Kink!(Softcore Waterboarding), Death, Violence, Kidnap, Blood mention, Usual Gotham things. 
> 
> Now, please, enjoy!

_If you blink once, what you find or seek is similar to the same but always different what am I?_  
  
Change. Gotham City. Alive, close to sentient. Her toxic haze, a two-way powerful pollution. The more she infects her citizens, the more they spread her disease. Drowning Gothamites in a never-ending cycle of dangerous energy. Like a horde of concentrated airborne parasites, carrying sin on the wind. Often known as the curse or gift from Gotham, addictive power with only two known cures. Death or Escape. Rarely, once awakened, if - _any -_ choose the latter. A tragic relationship between city and citizen. Nothing is sacred. Not even her Police Department. Raw-deep in infinite twists of co-dependent corruption and crime.  
  
_Locked in a box, I can be relived, rarely retrieved but I cannot go back, who am I?_  
  
Past trauma creates masks worn like an impenetrable fortress. True selves hidden by false exteriors. Edward Nygma or Ed Nygma as he prefers, is no exception. Harbouring ingredients to embrace Gotham's curse, he hates his home. Isolated. Eerie quiet and never truly alone. Thriving best at work, surrounded by people. Ed searches for inclusion, the smallest drops of praise, tiny ounces of acknowledgement. Often pondering a stage in spot-light. A try-hard with no hope of audience return. Pipe-dreams of a child best forgotten, or so he tells himself.  
  
“You go. I need to see a man about a thing.”  
  
Logging the time and date with Harvey Bullock's quote next to it. Ed Nygma otherwise keeps his head down and ears to the ground. The so-called 'solution' to the Wayne Murders didn't sit right. Bringing it to the attention of their Captain, she tells him to let it go. Suspicions rising, he walks at a brisk pace to his lab, door locking behind him. Installed for occasions such as these, confiding in the one person he truly trusts.  
  
_“What is cream, white or pink and trapped in the sea?”_  
  
“Pearls.”  
  
_“Hello Ed. What is favoured and not returned is such terrible form.”_ Grins his reflection.  
  
“I owe you nothing. Something's up.”  
  
_"And what else is new? You're missing vital pieces of the puzzle. Shiny shoes are a mystery but what about the pearls?”_  
  
The Other Ed or Edward Nigma as he prefers, is half-curse, half-gift. Yearning for fun ways to test his intellect. Once benign bordering protective. Somewhere between the present and past, increasingly difficult to distinguish apart. Sword double-edged. Significant difficulties maintaining boundaries of control, Ed, for the most part, tolerates his company. Dismissing Edward with polite care, he unlocks the door. Heading to Evidence, unrelated to the famous case. He hopes Miss Kringle isn't there, no courage to speak to his puppy-crush again today. Thankfully, Edward is in no rush either.  
  
_Sand to shadow, paved or flint, carved into and made out of, what am I?_  
  
Harvey Bullock punches his victim into water-splashed stone. Kicking him a few times until his nose bleeds. “Get up, filthy fucking rat!”   
  
No time to respond. Oswald Cobblepot feels large rough hands drag him to his feet. Brute force cramming him into the tight boot-space of Bullock's car. He trembles. Daylight closing out of sight. Forcing himself calm, he thinks his way to survival. No avail. Trapped, he blames Gotham's curse. Petrified. His head bumps painfully as wheels jolt through potholes. Stalling to a halt, Oswald's mind fogs with thoughts of claustrophobia, cramp and nausea. Forced to wait in anxious silence.  
  
A moment passes. Two or three following. Car doors slam open and shut. Engine vibrations alert the start of another journey. Sooner, rather than later, Bullock parks the car once more. Oswald does his best to turn his head in the little room he has to move. Footsteps nearing closer. Click. The Boot-lid creaks open. Eyes blink, adjusting to the light, overwhelmed with fear. “No, please, I beg of you!”  
  
“Shut up-!” Harvey Bullock barks, forcing Oswald to cower in place. He doesn't deserve this. “-This is the Fool that snitched to Montoya and Allen, so - Falcone, wants you to walk this piece of shit, to the end of that pier and put a bullet in his head, then everybody knows, you're with the program.”  
  
“And if I don't?” James steps to Bullock with menacing defiance and for a split second, Oswald swears his heart skips a beat.  
  
“Then I'm supposed to take you out and him too and here's the thing Jim, I like you, I might not have the stomach to do it but I'll try, because if I don't? Someone will get to you quick enough,” Harvey Bullock doesn't bluff, “then they're gonna get to me and probably Barbara as well, who knows what you told her.”  
  
“I told her nothing-”  
  
“-Do you really think Falcone cares!? Come on! You've killed people before-”  
  
“-That was war!”  
  
“Christ Jim-!” Bullock turns. Taking a deep breath, he all but chest-pokes his friend and colleague. “- _This. Is._ war! With scumbags like him! What's one dead criminal weighed against the lives of your loved ones huh-?” Black metal wrapped in red wool. James knows what it is, he hesitates.  
  
Silence.  
  
Harvey gives him another look. “-Jim, I might be lackadaisical but one bad thing for the future of many good things...that has to be worth more than his life right!? So maybe you do this one bad thing so you and your girlfriend lives or you don't and she dies. It's just not a tough call.”  
  
James sighs. Slow blink. He leans to clutch onto Oswald's clothing, forcing him in front. Gun snatched from Bullock. Slight visible relief for Bullock, terror for Oswald. They're not out of the woods but Harvey takes a few paces back. Ready to interfere, in case, James changes his mind.  
  
“Walk.”  
  
Struggling with his limp, Oswald obeys. James looks towards Harvey, questioning himself. Is he really doing this? Taking the opportunity, Oswald turns to face him. “Please Mr. Gordon, just let me live. I'll do whatever you say, I'll be your slave for life.”  
  
He'd be his who for what now? In this split-second, James makes his decision, even as Oswald babbles on about war, threat and future, he doesn't change his mind. No matter what his crime. James doesn't want to kill him. Maybe it makes him soft or weak. Good or strong. No matter what, refusing to do it.  
  
“Shut up and turn around-” holding Oswald Cobblepot firm by the shoulder, James makes his final demand, “-Don't ever come back to Gotham.” Bullet shoots past Oswald's ear. Shoving him into freezing, contaminated, murky depths.  
  
Tinnitus rings through Oswald as the blast near-deafens. Too close for comfort. Water-logged clothing weighs him down. Storm, threatening in the distance. Currents carry him from the pier. Disorientation makes it difficult to swim. It passes. Holding his breath, he swims. Strong and fast. The fact that his despised nickname applies now more than ever isn't lost on him. Anger flaring, scolding himself. He is decidedly _not. A._ _ **Penguin**_.  
  
Unsure of how far he travels, he continues to hold his breath, until the struggle for air is all too much. His body forcing him to resurface like a disgraced dolphin. Oswald fights. Several drowned breaths later, eyes flutter. Coughing. Choking. Awkwardly splashing to shore, he regains some composure. Clambering banks. Soaked to the bone. Grime and stink. Glad to be alive but- _beyond_ _ **pissed.**_  
  
Under normal circumstances, the nameless fisherman minding his own business, wouldn't even register as a target. Left alone, free to exist. Temper critical, Oswald Cobblepot isn't thinking beyond survival. Slow reaction. Switch-blade obtained. Small mercy. His victim receives a swift humane death. Stealing blood-splattered chicken and lettuce, furious inhalation curbs starvation. His whereabouts still disorientated with a new problem to dispose of.  
  
Stumbling across the fisherman's camp. Wrapping the dead man in his own sleeping bag, he fills it with as many heavy rocks as possible. Dragging cumbersome cargo to its watery grave. Oswald watches it sink. He spends the night awake to make sure it doesn't resurface. Satisfaction. All but two of the fisherman's belongings lost in the same way. Knife and map.  
  
No sleep. Strong wind. No match for numb fingers. Oswald manages to collect a partial route home. Map ripping from his weak grasp. Punishment deserved, he gives the world a look of utter disdain. Hard mode engaged in his game for survival. Waddling and stumbling through the woods, he reaches the main road. Ominous dark grey clouds with rare sun. Earlyish. Somewhere between five and seven in the morning he thinks. He starts his treacherous walk home.  
  
_What has borders without boundaries, valleys without trees and roads without cement?_  
  
Violent paper slams against glass, jumping Edward Nygma awake. Searching for the source, he stands on a chair, pulling it through the cracked window. A map? “Intriguing. I wonder how this got here.” Leaving it to dry on the radiator, Ed enters his bathroom.  
  
_What is useful for spies to find the lies, now my pleasure and my pain?_  
  
Needle-point. _Burning_. Water sprays from the shower head. Clean clothes. Pjs discarded. Curtains. Step forward. Water soaking muscle-firm. Smooth. Flawed. Naked skin. Radio. Fingers reach for his cleaning cloth. Mind racing. _Obsession._ _Hyper-focus._ Beautiful. _Thoughts_. Radiant. _Kristen_. _Deep breath_. Amethyst fabric spreads across his face. Hair drenched. Head tilt. Self-torture. Hand to shaft. Steady. Breathless moans replace water-strangled cries. Step back. In. Out. Rinse. Repeat. Rapid heartbeat in every drowned moment. Cloth drop exposure. Weak knees. Fist support against sickly-green tiles. Touch-stroke. Eyes shut. Deep blush. _Desperate._ Bare whisper.  
  
“...K...Kristen....”  
  
_Close._  
  
“...Oh...”  
  
_Closer._  
  
“K-Kristen!”  
  
_Closest._  
  
“Kristen!”  
  
_**Climax**_.  
  
Ed Nygma takes a moment to calm himself, saying nothing else as he reaches for the soap.  
  
_Few go for fun, some over-strain, some cannot do this and some over-gain, what am I?_  
  
Dressed. Hair-gel. Prim and proper. Thirty-five minutes late for work. Ed Nygma takes a deep breath. How he loves the smell of station musk in the morning. His lab, so crisp and sterile smells even better. Details. Files. Paperwork. Pride. Phone-calls. Desk and database. Every second fuels his passion for the job. Glee. Eureka. Even the most awkward of social interactions seem smoother today. Time flies. Lunch-time. Taking a break, he takes his question-mark mug to the kitchen. Coffee. Hot, bitter and black. Warm hands. Warm throat. Excitement courses through him. Never a dull day. Private. Hushed whispers. Bullock. More suspicions. Gordon. Ed strains his ears trying to eavesdrop on heated exchanges.   
  
“Mind sayin' that a bit louder?” Harvey bites out. Looking at Ed, he pulls James further aside.  
  
Stealth roll failed, Ed stands by the phones. Hunches, all but confirmed. Punching numbers. Conversation. Job done. Called to the scene of another crime. Relief washes over him. Great! Pulled from the side-lines!  
  
On a mission to learn the truth, Ed casually sneaks into Evidence. _Almost_ freezing in place.  
  
Kristen Kringle sits at her desk, hair tied back in the neatest of ponytails. He notices her lips first, then her eyes. Dropping her pencil, She shyly looks at his bow-tie. Unsettling. Is it the way he's looking at her or-? Uncomfortable. He's handsome, she admits to herself but it doesn't remove feelings of unnerve. She smiles shyly but remains unspoken as she walks out. None the wiser to his earlier fantasies. His presence overpowering as his eyes follow her. Sense of possession. Sweet and kind. Scolding himself for staring, Ed continues working.   
  
Neither the string pearls or the shiny shoes are anywhere obvious. _Curious_. Coding his findings in riddles, he adds his next piece of business amongst his notes. Ed is an overachiever. Completing his work for the GCPD, he continues his side project. The forensic investigator flicks through files. A-C. _Cobblepot_ _ **Oswald.**_  
  
_Photo perfect._  
  
Wishing to have as little contact with the underworld as possible, Ed begins to pace. “With whom did you last speak?” Unanswered, he reads the file. _Known Associates: Fish Mooney. Butch Gilzean._ Third name censored adding depth to his riddle. Returning the portfolio, drawers slide to a close.  
  
_What's black, gold, white and thrives in the cold?_  
  
Nine miles from Gotham. Far from home. Inconvenience. _Exhausted._ Fruitless hours of travel. Hitch-hiking rejected. Aches and pains pester Oswald's legs and feet. Damp. Hypothermic. The sky doesn't look too different. Darker. At a guess? Three hours from sun down. Unable to change his clothes. Agonising. Itchy. Sore. Smelling like rotting frogspawn, crawled through cemeteries or worse. Frustrations aside, no blame is placed on the passers-by for ignoring him out-right. Positions reversed, Oswald mulls the hypothetical.  
  
Noise from a silver four-by-four interrupts his thoughts. Muffled blaring. 'Is this what passes for music these days?' Silent scoff. Perseverance keeps him moving. Hooligans and riff-raff. The vehicle stops. Oswald hesitates but reaches for the handle. They pull away. Laughter. Oswald tries again. Same 'prank' plays twice. Calm gratitude replaces temper flare. A single hiss of compressed teenage boy causes a cough. Slight startle.  
  
Both men laugh. “There you go.”  
  
“Yeah, that's-” Rudeness refused. “-Thank you. Forgive me, I am somewhat dishevelled, a temporary setback, I assure you.”  
  
Hands pass an open beer.  
  
“Thank you so much.”  
  
“What the hell happened to you anyhow?”  
  
“It was my own fault. Foolish arrogance led me astray but, I learned my lessons, I'll be back, stronger and smarter than ever.” Conviction. Sincerity. Yet-  
  
“Good luck with that, bro.” Driver dismisses.  
  
Laughter rewards the speeches. Until-  
  
“Dude, anyone ever tell you? When you walk, you look just like a Penguin?”  
  
Tension. Knife-edge. 'Walk like a Penguin do I!?' Inner monologue fuming beyond temper control.  
  
“No. Nobody's ever told me that.” Insulted. Pause. Smashing the beer bottle against the car door interior. Oswald stabs the passenger first, deep-cutting an artery. Bleeding death. “Pull over when I say so _friend_.”  
  
Horror-stricken panic. The driver does as he is told. Safe from prying eyes, Oswald limps to the back of the car, opening the boot. Duct-tape. Rope, rubbish sacks and...other things. Deadpan follows short laughter. Questions, he cares not the answers for. Sealing his first victim in rubbish sacks with duct-tape. Ties bind the former driver's hands and feet. Alive. Gagged. Boot locked. Quite the habit, body-stashing.  
  
Fatigue. Discomfort. No rest for the wicked. He continues the crucial journey. Observing speed limits. Drive. Indicate. Mirror. Turn. Stopping in the middle of nowhere. He yanks the handbrake, quick-clicking it into place (a noise that makes any mechanic wince on some level) and steps onto the gravel-stone. Stumbling across such a mechanic more interested in the engine than the stranger. Oswald performs convincing distractions. Fearing Ted (named by powers of observation) finds his secrets. Danger adverted, further negotiation gives him a roof over his head and he vows not to kill this man unnecessarily.  
  
Double-checking his surroundings, he secures the driver in the wardrobe. Dizzy-tired. Sunset. Car clean. Absolutely sure not a single detail is missed in the vehicle or home. He rewards himself with a crude shower. Humming a soft lullaby, he does his best to keep as much hygiene as possible, forcing himself awake. Missing the arms of his sweet affectionate mother and all the comforts of home. Water-off. Towel-dry. Dressing into stolen clothing, at least wearable for bed. Trying to ignore the foul-smelling, mould-stained sofa. Better than the floor – and the bed. Condition regardless, appreciative for the roof over his head. Sleep-deprived and sore, he finally passes out.  
  
Morning arrives. Eyes flutter open, ready to go home as soon as possible. Breakfast. Crude shower. Dressing in a second set of stolen clothes. The door to the caravan clacks open, connecting against its own walls. As luck has it, Ted sets to work early. No doubt on whatever project he has going for him. Once out of sight, Oswald executes Plan A. The only reason he keeps his captive. Ransom. Finding his victim's phone, he opens the wardrobe.  
  
“Good morning sleepy head. I do hope you slept well. Forgive me for the state of such accommodations. Please, tell me, is this your phone?”  
  
Slinking into the back of the wardrobe. Wide eyes stare at him, nodding once, restricted from speech.  
  
Oswald records a video of his...prisoner. Sending to dear contact, Mum. Patience waiting for the phone to ring.  
  
"Excuse me, who is this?" For the moment, she is calm.   
  
"Hello? Ah."  
  
"Are you the one who send me that awful demand?"   
  
"Yes, this is he."   
  
"Is this true? Kobie, is this another prank?"  
  
"Well, I'm looking at your right son now...and he doesn't look good."   
  
"Is this some kind of trick, another one of his _games_?"  
  
"Madam I assure you, your son is not trying to trick you, no, he will die a horrible death unless he- "   
  
"-Shut up! Is this some kind of sick joke?" She seethes.   
  
"No, no, no, really, truly, he isn't joking, _I'm_ not joking, I will poke his eyeballs out and-"   
  
"You're lying! My Kobie is fine!"   
  
Oswald takes mild offence. "How can you say that? You saw the video, I _never_ lie on matters such as these."  
  
“Korbias Olivia-Thomas Smith! Come home this instant! I swear I'll-”  
  
He tries calming her but cannot. She is nearing hysterical.   
  
"If 10,000 is too much I am sure we can-"   
  
“-Oh, Will you now? This _is_ another of his _pranks,_ I've got one word for him! Goodbye!” She hangs up. Sarcasm laced anger.   
  
Spectacular Failure. Oswald stands, staring at the phone. Amused.  
  
“Well that is disappointing! She did not believe me, you must be quite the Scamp-” Oswald smiles sweetly at the nameless university student tied together with duct tape. “-What to do now? See-” Bowing to look to him in the eyes, he chuckles soft and smug. “-I still need to get home to Gotham.” Leaving him alive is impossible. Death. Inevitable. Humane. Swift and merciful. Oswald implements Plan B.  
  
Messy. Clean-up. Tedious. Not what Oswald wishes nor intends. Removing all traces of blood-stained evidence, the caravan is otherwise, how he rents it. Perhaps a tad cleaner. Keeping the corpse of his prisoner until coast clear. Kind, old and unsuspecting. Ted the mechanic drives to town for the day. Relief as he is vital for Plan B's success. With him out of the way, tedium begins. Deep valet. Oswald covers his tracks. Body buried in the woods.  
  
Ted returns a while after Oswald makes lunch. Deeds complete, Oswald hobbles to greet him.  
  
“You know...it might still have the hemi...if you wanted to take a look-” 

Ted beams.  
  
Out of depth in car-talk. Their conversation enters one ear, lost out the other. Allowing Ted to gush over the 'hunk of metal', “-so...how much to...chop it? I believe, is the correct term of phrase.”  
  
“I'll give you two-fifty and a lift to town.” says Ted, in a thick drawl.  
  
“Done.” Oswald grins, shaking his hand. Enough to return home. “When can we leave?”  
  
“As soon as you like.”  
  
“Immediately, if you please.”  
  
Peaceful silence, Oswald shakes his head. “You've been decent to me, that should be rewarded.” Returning half the payment and the key. He waddles out of the vehicle towards the nearest bus stop. Catching the quickest route back to Gotham, Ted returns to the back-end of nowhere.  
  
An hour later, Oswald lives to regret the decision. Severely underestimating the fare. He realises that he has little else. Never swearing out loud, he keeps his cool. All but shrapnel spent, he takes his seat in the window isle, at the back of the coach.  
  
“Home.” Oswald says out-loud, cheer and glee to no one in particular. Glad to be walking anonymously in the crime-filth city streets, not quite certain of the direction he wants to take. A vague inkling interrupts his thoughts as he hears screaming nearby. Fading fast as arrived. Watching in waiting, just in case, Oswald Cobblepot takes to the shadows. Money checked. He plays with the only _souvenir_ from his _adventure_ outside Gotham.  
  
Hungry and desperate. He watches a burger van, still oblivious to the shenanigans in the sky. His blood running cold as someone calls his name. Faking a Russian accent, Oswald turns to the bounty hunter from his past. “I'm afraid you have me confused, my name is Dimitri Asmodeus.”  
  
So the scene plays out. Oswald rather pathetically (and not for the first time) begs for his life. The bounty hunter struggles. Oswald escapes by slashing at the bastard's ankle, stabbing him to death. In Gotham's era of escalated crime, one more dead mugging victim from the underworld isn't a priority for the authorities. In fact, he has probably done them a favour. Ritualistic. Dragging the body semi-exposed. Oswald rummages through the wallet and pockets of his victim. Does Cobblepot really believe in being Gotham's future and destiny? Hobbling to the van, he looks up with a genuine smile.

“Can I have a tuna sandwich please?”   
  
_A penguin does indeed, eat fish._


	2. Riddled with Religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Chapter! Thank you to all six of you who gave me kudos ;; And! Thank you both to My_Mythical_OTP and namikazemia for bookmarking my work! It really means so much to me! I have fans! Wait..Are you guys fans? Do I have fans? (You thirsty-ass dicknoodle. It's been one chapter!) ANYWAY; I'll always respond to comments as well don't forget! (The ending hit...close to home hahaha...) ...We'll...just get on with it shall we? ¬¬;; Please enjoy! -bows himself out- 
> 
> Chapter Content Warnings: Mild-Severe mention of Child Abuse, Implied Child Sexual Abuse, Original Male Character (Sort of?) Comical Violence, Blasphemy, Blood mention, Usual Gotham antics, Rubber Duck.

Mid-Town. Arkham City Borders. Major Crimes HQ. White blood cells, preventing Gotham from complete collapse. Some days, Renee Montoya wonders why she bothers with work. Her partner Crispus Allen, feels the same. Best friends. Mistaken for lovers. Complimenting ethics and morals. Inundated. Streams of calls. Limitations. The losing side of an irreparable system. Fire-fighting with futile flame. Vice. Ransom. Serial murder. _Corruption_. Just _once_ _._ Wishing for threats to their job security. Infuriated, Montoya throws her pen. Taken aback as it neat-lands in the empty desk-pot. Allen makes fruit tea as usual, perching the corner of Renee's desk. Mug placed on their company logo.  
  
“Good aim.”  
  
Snorting. Her hand reaches for the sweet hot drink. “It wouldn't happen twice-” Telephone ringing, fingers touch the receiver. “-Hold that thought- Gotham City, Major Crimes Unit, Montoya speaking.”  
  
Voice on the other end. Brisk. Distorted yet, clear. Montoya leans, tensing as she is fed information. “Sir? Can you elaborate? No! Don't hang up we just- ...Hello?” Dial Tone. Handset smashes against the bed of the phone.  
  
Allen jumps. Contoured with confusion and concern.  
  
“We've got a tip-off-” Montoya says, shrugging into her jacket. “-But if it's true...Bullock and Gordon murdered Cobblepot.”  
  
“You can't be serious?” Allen's eyes widen in disbelief, coat tucking over arm, following her lead, “Bullock? I get, but Gordon? Why him?”  
  
“That's what we're gonna find out.”  
  
Allen throws on his coat, walking to the car.  
  
Mooney's.  
  
Gotham's laugh. Plaster on an otherwise gaping wound. Packed with various types of people. Wanted. Civilian. Neither. Both. Smooth, seductive violins play in the background. Over-priced perfumes and booze assault their senses. Private Booth. Sand oak. Red leather. The Crime Queen sits opposite a woman. Uncanny, her resemblance. To whom? Fish isn't sure. Dark sleek fingers slide across rosy cheeks under blonde hair. Whispering marble strings of secrets and lies. Kiss blown. Fish is alone. Finger-snap. Waiter. Alcohol. Bottle in ice. Calm expectancy. Looking less than impressed. Golden eyes harden as Allen and Montoya replace her previous guest.  
  
“Tell me. You better have a decent excuse for interrupting my date. _Detectives_ _,_ after my _dear_ little Oswald _left_ me...I've been... _inconsolable_.” She slow-traces the rim of her champagne glass.  
  
“Cut the crap Fish, I know you had beef.” Montoya sneers.  
  
Slight laugh. “So then, is that why are you here? …Let me guess, he's _dead_ , isn't he?”  
  
“You don't sound surprised.” Allen says.  
  
She looks into her drink, swirling it. “Yes-” Elegant sip. “-I'll admit it, I found out, but if you are coming in here to make assumptions, _you_ need to look closer to home~”  
  
“We know,” Montoya admits, “I received an anonymous tip-off this morning, we came to you for proof.”  
  
“Do I _look_ like a pig?” Fish scoffs, “I haven't proof but, rumour has it James Gordon pulled the trigger _and_ , if you ask me, which you _are_ , I'd say the true mastermind is the power behind the order.”  
  
“Who would give the order?” Allen asks.  
  
“Dense, the pair of you,” coy smile, “take a wild shot in the dark.”  
  
“Falcone,” Montoya concludes, exchanging disgust with Allen.  
  
Fish huffs. Vexed amusement. “Your powers of deduction astound me. Detectives. _Really_ _._ I have _chills_ _._ Do leave the door open on your way out~”  
  
_Fear drives me. You can see me. Advanced, you can control me but, you may not remember me, what am I?_ _  
_  
Unwanted. Overlooked. Gas-lighted. Invisible. Today more than others. Nigma is boisterous. Understatement. Hyperactive. Loud. Obnoxious and _the riddles_ _._ Headache. Noise. Working on the Balloonman case is near impossible. Speculation. Case itself, root cause of Nigma's bizarre activity. Dead bodies. Scooped up like ice-cream from roads and pavements. Favourite so far. Exiting his lab in search of the break room, his question-mark mug sits in its usual place. Smiling on the inside.  
  
_What's blue and pink and glows in the dark?_ More joke than riddle. _An ultrasound_ _._ Nigma is having fun. Perhaps-  
  
_Too much? There's no such thing as too much fun!_

“You're not helping matters.” He tells himself. All too late does he realise, _whom_ _,_ stands in front of him. Sugar to Coffee. Hearing every word.  
  
“Hm?” Kristen asks, fluttering confused eyelashes at him.  
  
“I- That's not- _I_ _wasn't talking to you_ _-!_ ” Nigma snaps at her. She gasps, huffing away.  
  
“-Wait- …Miss Kringle? Miss Kringle!” Ed calls.  
  
Evidence room door slams shut with a kick of a heel. Wince.  
  
Laughter erupts from behind him. A large hand patting his shoulder.  
  
“Good one Ed, that was goddamn priceless-” Bullock wipes the corner of his eye. Nigma glowers. Hand retracted, Harvey gives him a wink. “-Just keep a low profile today, okay Riddleman?”  
  
_“_ _Don't I always?”_ Disingenuous smile. Edward retreats to his lab. Locking the door, Ed faces the mirror. “ _That_ was your fault!”  
  
Nigma laughs. _“My fault? I'm not the one pining after her like some vulture.”_ _  
  
_“Shut up and stay quiet!” He hisses, poking the mirror. Pause. Head steady. Breathe. Forcing Nigma silent to concentrate on work. Effort. Pearls and shiny shoes. His conclusion? Mario Pepper dies an innocent. A higher power, maybe even a conspiracy. Major Crimes require harder evidence. Ed scolds Nigma over his brief encounter with Kristen. Written apology. Reading and re-reading. The letter doesn't feel quite right. Discarded. Nigma is toying with him.  
  
_Roses are Red  
Violets are Blue  
Sorry my dear but I don't love you.  
__  
_ Knock on glass. Ed stands. Humble. Checking his breath-smell, Ed ignores Gordon's arrival. Struggling to keep Nigma in control. _  
  
_“Is this work related Mr. Nygma?” Kristen says shortly.  
  
“I-I came to give you this...” He pecks her cheek.  
  
She frowns. “Want kind of game are you playing?”  
  
“I don't understand Miss Kringle...I'm trying to apologise.”  
  
“Really!?” She glares at him, is that...a blush? “Keep it professional, Mr. Nygma.”  
  
'I love you'. He mouths, forehead resting on glass. _No. I don't_ _._ Edward scowls, needing to put himself in place.  
  
“You really are terrible with women,” Gordon sympathises, patting him gently on the other shoulder, “try...flowers or chocolates next time.”  
  
Ed flashes him a shy smile. Heartfelt advice throwing him off-guard. “Thank you that was...kind.” He returns to his lab. Again. Locking himself in. Mirror-faced. “Where are you?” _ **  
  
**__“I'm right, I don't love her, I just_ _ **think**_ _I do._ _”_  
  
“You're wrong! I _do_ love her! She's beautiful and perfect and you need to shut up and leave her alone! Leave me alone! Why are you so... _around_ today?”  
  
_“_ _Ed,_ _ **Honey**_ _,_ _I'm always around, thinking your true thoughts...your_ _ **real**_ _shower thoughts._ _”  
  
_“Don't, don't start _that_ I'm not-” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “-Just go and _please_... _no more_.”  
  
_“Suit yourself~ Deny me once, deny me twice, you cannot escape, deny me more, this fire within, escalates.”_

Goosebumps. Bullock swallows thickly. Nope. Not using that nickname again. No chance. Bad move. Shaking it off, he walks to work on his next case. Some vigilante using weather balloons to kill criminals. Open and shut in his eyes. He knows Jim however, Mr. Moral-High-Ground. Groaning, he sits at his desk, filing the paperwork. Coffee. Bittersweet and milky. He eyes Gordon. Sadness? No. Pity. For Nygma? Laughable.  
  
“Nygma's a freak, a creepy dude with stunted social growth.” He snorts.  
  
James glares at Harvey over his mug of fresh-brew. Honey-sweet. Heavy cream.  
  
Harvey knows that look. Twinging guilt for his thoughts. “I suppose Ed isn't _that_ bad. Just... _weird_ -” Bullock mutters, apology half-arsed. Pair spotted. Major Crimes. “-as if the day couldn't get any worse - what do you want, Montoya?” He demands.  
  
“Let's not beat around the bush. Where were you two the night, September 17th? On a favour to the Don?”  
  
Blood runs cold. How did-  
  
“I have nothing to say except I'm innocent.” James replies.  
  
“So it is true,” Allen states matter-of-fact, “you did kill Oswald Cobblepot.”  
  
“I'm telling you I didn't, you're _j_ _ust_ not listening, so unless you have a body, murder weapon and motive, you need to leave, this is _not_ your jurisdiction!” James tells them in no uncertain terms.  
  
“Oh it is, you damn son of a bitch,” Montoya bites, “we've got motive and we're coming for you, I thought I'd give you a little heads-up, officer-to-cop.”  
  
“Good luck with that,” James frowns, “can I get back to work?”  
  
“For now-” Allen responds voice low, holding Montoya from arresting him on the spot. “-Easy, he's right, we don't have enough proof.”  
  
“Tch,” Montoya frowns, “this isn't over.”  
  
“For now,” Bullock retorts, “it is.”  
  
Montoya and Allen quit the building. Bullock and Gordon sort their facts. Working on their latest crime scene. Harvey wonders two things. First; Who dares talk G.C.P.D matters to outsiders and second; who the hell cares about that nobody Cobblepot anyway?  
  
Driving in silence. Tension knife-edge. Pulling over, Allen holds Montoya. Relaxation. Parting ways. Journey continues. Last stop. Shift end. Decade or two. Lost ghosts hushed in myth. Temporary immunity. Gotham recoils her acid, melting like candle wax to flame. Boiling hatred in a constant battle with implausible forcefields. Her evil bite piercing. Eventual ripping to shreds, consuming until devoured. Today is not that day. Delicate roses with soft thorns grow in the gardens. Tender land. Care. Bloom. Jewish symbols decorate the study. Washed-out pastels. Sickly hues make for odd bedfellows, somehow, managing warmth and happiness.  
  
Perplexing. Cobblepot lives here? Montoya imagines different. Worse. Sinister. Energy drawn, Allen gets comfortable. Gertrud Kapelput. Wonderful. Endearing as any mother – greater so. Intense devotion. Unconditional love. Neither Allen nor Montoya are sure they have the heart. Truth Spill. Without Oswald's body. Fair or not? Job description. Whistling kettle. Water boils. Three mugs, herbal tea, lavender infused. Old eyes holding limitless kindness. Whomever they expect Mrs. Cobblepot to be, isn't this dear inviting lady.  
  
“Kapelput, please, my name is Mrs. Kapelput.”  
  
“Mrs. Kapelput,” Allen corrects, “We have spoken to some people and we believe that your son is-”  
  
“I knew it! Some painted slut has him in her clutch!” Gertrud exclaims, sitting in her arm chair.  
  
“A woman?” Montoya turns to Allen, sharing a look of disbelief, “you think?”  
  
Ludicrous. Impossible. _Never_ in a million years. Working with Mr. Cobblepot- How many times-? Caught. Dreamy goo-goo eyes floating over Allen or some other male officer. Montoya loses count. _Not_ their place to say.  
  
“Of course...a mother feels these things, you need to find min lillepojke.”  
  
Silence. Allen takes a deep breath. Montoya does the same. Hand squeezing. Knee tight. Unable to express Oswald's fate. Situation personal for Renee. Crispus respects her feelings. Agreement? Somehow. Cobblepot is- _was_ delightful in his own way.  
  
“Mrs. Kapelput...your son...is...” Montoya begins.  
  
“That is, we're truly sorry for your loss Mrs. Kapelput.” Allen finishes.  
  
Gertrud stares. “N-No. Oswald alive he is! Yes! My handsome boy is not dead...alive...I would feel...I do not feel-” She trails off, reaching for his portrait. Tears drip on glass. “-Ah min lillepojke...Du måste kom hemma...” She nears hysterics. Hurt turns to something _terrifying_ _._ “You-!” Hissing Medusa-like anger at her intruders, “-Show me body! Then and _only_ then do I accept such his fate!”  
  
Wisdom without sound. Major Crimes vacate the property. Two finger kiss upon art. Her beloved baby boy.  
  
“Var är du, min äskling?” Gertrud asks, voice breaking.  
  
Stolen notes. Couple hundred. Doesn't last long in Oswald's hands. Requiring more money, he starts looking for work. In this economy, he knows his chances are slim. Persistence. Superpower of sheer will and raw inability to give up. What Cobblepot wants, Cobblepot gets. Consequences be damned. Doors shut on every establishment so far. Irritated sigh. Crossing the street, he passes through the doors of Il Ristorante. Mr. Fernando Gallo. Manager name obtained from reading the menu. Oswald sneaks into the kitchen. Approaching the best dressed man.  
  
“Mr. Gallo? My name is Paolo,” tentative. Little awkward, “I am looking for work, any job at all, even dishwasher.”  
  
“We're staffed up.”  
  
“I only ask a chance to prove myself.”  
  
“You ever work in a restaurant?”  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
“Here, you're on your feet all day, you don't even have the right shoes.”  
  
Disappointment. Lost battle. Not the war. Formulating a plan, Oswald picks his target. A tall gentleman with bronze skin. Exquisite charming smile. Catching himself gawking, he adverts his eyes. Hasty disappearance. Long day. Pangs of homesickness hitting hard as thoughts travel to his mother. For the moment, he holds onto them. Waiting for shift-end. Gotham's sky. Pitch-black by the time Oswald's target leaves Il Ristorante.  
  
“Ciao Nandez!”  
  
Nice name, Nandez. Pretty. Oswald thinks, keeping to the shadows. Behind a few paces. Bus Stop. “Pardon me...do you have the time?”  
  
“Yeah...sure it's uh-” No watch, he turns to Gotham's clock-tower. Nandez's eyes widen in surprise. “-Hey- look out-!” Tackle-jumping Cobblepot out of harms way. Falling debris. An atmosphere-perished corpse. “-Only in Gotham...” He mutters, “are you alright? Need a hand?”  
  
Oswald. Shaken. Stirred but not perturbed. Nods. Eyes fixating on the man so selflessly saving his life. He swallows thickly, taking his hand. Well shit. “I'm okay-” His bad knee flaring but, rescued, like the rest of him. “-My name is...” He debates whether to give his real name or not.  
  
“Paolo right? I overheard you with the Boss.” Nandez smiles, answering the question for him.  
  
“Y-Yes...right, of course, I am Paolo.”  
  
“Nandez Ferrari. Like the car, except I don't run quite as fast” He winks.  
  
“Oh, I doubt that.” Oswald laughs heartedly. “You were rapid in coming to my daring rescue, thank you.”  
  
'What a most beautiful sound, that laugh like music!' Nandez thinks. “...Look, why don't we...get out of here and away from – well _that_ _._ ” He thumbs to the dead man splattered across the pavement and road.  
  
“Do you have somewhere we can go? Forgive my candid intrusiveness, I'm between places at the moment and-”  
  
“I'll pay for a hotel, my treat.”  
  
“...Can I just call you Angel, Ferrari?” Oswald blushes. “Saving me twice in one night, I am indebted.”  
  
“You look cold.” Nandez's voice like smooth jazz. Taking a scarf from his bag, he wraps it around Oswald's neck. “Like a little fluffy Penguin.”  
  
Oswald scowls. “You're making fun of me I'll-”  
  
“-Wait! I'm not making fun of you, I promise, Penguins will take over the world!” He grins.  
  
Oswald buries his face in the spice-smelling scarf, blushing deeper. _Surreal_. Any other person. Murder. But- Of course. Nandez _has_ to be a proper gentleman, doesn't he?  
  
Hotel. Fancy enough. Stars. Near-four. Marked three. Swish. Respectable. Oswald waits as Nandez books them in. Wondering why this man is being so kind. Thoughts turn to bath-time. Good. Personal Hygiene! Lift. Mirrors. Gold. Black. Corridor. Blue Carpet. Sixth floor. The hotel room overlooks the city beneath. Glass view. Busy. One double-bed. En-suite. Quiet. Gotham at Night. Nandez unpacks his things. Oswald makes a bold move to kiss him.  
  
“Whoa, hold on, I like you but- I didn't bring you here for sex...I brought you here to get to know you better.”  
  
Oswald thought his heart would explode. Is. He. _Serious_!? “I-I-” Caught off-guard, Oswald resists the urge to cry. Is this real happiness? Composure. “-It is only a kiss, how presumptuous and bold of you to assume I would-”  
  
“Hey, come on Mr. Penguin,” strong arms embrace Oswald, “I got you, I'm half-teasing.”  
  
“I would like a bath.” Shy confession.  
  
“Go have a bath, Paolo.” Nandez smiles, thumbing over Oswald's cheek, “You're a man of class.”  
  
“...Is there a rubber duck?”  
  
Nandez bursts out laughing. “Yes, Paolo, yes, there probably is.”  
  
Water on. Bubbles. Rubber Duck. Oswald feels better. Hair wash. Warm. Comfortable. Snuggle. Clean clothes. Nandez watches sport on the TV. Football or Rugby? Not his thing. Oswald bites his lip. Stomach growl. Room Service. Nandez takes a shower. Oswald waits. Making the best of the desk. Arranging it ready for food. Man of class indeed. Fifteen-twenty minutes later, Nandez steps out. Door knock. Food arrives. Bickering over set-up, Oswald wins.  
  
“You've done so much already, please allow me.”  
  
Nandez gives in. Refined table manners. Oswald's thumbs away soy sauce from Nandez's chin. Tender kiss, Oswald straddles him. Dark-tan hand places on Oswald's chest.  
  
“This isn't about sex. Just gratitude,” Oswald promises, “let me rub your feet, they must hurt...I used to do this for-” Eyes narrow. Sneering at the memory but that – No choice then. Choice now. “-It doesn't matter, I _want_ to do this...so...let me?”  
  
Nandez smiles. Silent consent. Oswald slides off. Cross-legged. He doesn't hate these feet. Unlike Mooney's. Pedicured, soft and how he wants to twist her ankles, break those painted toes. Distasteful thoughts aside. Nandez' feet. Fresh-clean. Rough. Size? Nines. Approximation. Same as his. _Coincidence_. Massage. Slow. Firm. Gentle. Expert. Good feet. Strong. _No_ _t_ a fetish.  
  
“...Oh..Paolo...that's- nice.” Nandez soft-moans.  
  
Oswald concentrates on the other foot. Massaged to comfort. Oswald stops. Hands washed. They continue to eat. Clean teeth. Plush pyjamas. Nandez falls asleep easily but Oswald cannot. Taking a deep breath, he knows what he has to do – even if, he _**REALLY**_ doesn't want to.  
  
_To my dear Nandez Ferrari, my Angel.  
  
I hope saving me does not become your greatest regret. Though it is with a heavy heart we __must_ _depart_ _. For I have plans in this city. I am not the one for you. Staying with me will only bring about your demise. I cannot bring myself to drag you into that life. You may be used to Gotham but, you will never get used to what it will become. I hope someday, you can learn to forgive me. We met once. You can get over me, as I must learn to do the same. I am forever and eternally grateful. You saved my life and now I must repay that debt.  
  
Leave Gotham and never come back. I mean this. Failure to heed my warning will end in your death. Do not force it by my hand. That is too cruel. You deserve better. I am serious. Do not come to work. I will take your place. You will still get paid, of this, I shall make certain. I will take care of you. Just do as I say and __never_ _return_ _.  
  
I always intended to steal your shoes, instead, you stole my heart.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
__~~Mr. Penguin~~_ _~~Paolo~~_ _Me_ _.  
  
P.S: I __have_ _stolen_ _your shoes, your work clothes and the rubber duck.  
  
P.P.S: I __will_ _kill you_ _if I ever see you again. I must stress that I do_ _not_ _wish_ _that._ _Please remove yourself from Gotham. Forever. I insist!_ _  
_  
Letter placed on the pillow on 'his' side of the bed. Forehead kiss. Aiming to protect the snoring man. Fighting tears. Eyes blurring. It's a sacrifice he just _has_ to make. Shoes. Dirty work clothes. Rubber duck. Another sleepless night.  
  
Crack of dawn. Different hotel. Public toilets. Changing in pristine conditions. Oswald dresses. Chequered trousers. Size nines. Chef shirt and food-soiled apron. Hours pass. Il Ristorante opens. Anxiety. Nandez doesn't show. Relief. Sinking feelings. Additional self-loathing but consolation. Nandez is safe. Oswald keeps the rubber duck in his trouser leg pocket. Silly, how one object can hold such deep meanings.  
  
“Here's the deal: You wash dishes, mop the floor and take out the trash-” Fernando Gallo barks, bringing Oswald to reality. “-Otherwise...you're deaf dumb and blind.”  
  
“I understand-”  
  
“-No, you don't but you will, this ain't like other places and you'll either get it-”  
  
“-Or I'll be fired?” Oswald asks quietly.  
  
“Yeah, You could say that.”  
  
“Oh you have nothing to worry about, I know this is a great opportunity-”  
  
Mr. Gallo greets his boss, grinning like a fool. “Don Maroni”  
  
“Good to see you.” Don Maroni winks.  
  
“Great opportunity indeed.” Oswald half-smirks. Patting his pocket. Discretion. Patting his new duck friend.   
  
Nandez stirs. Arm flopping over to hug the empty space. Eyes open. “Paolo?” He yawns, sitting up. “...Paolo?” He tries again. No answer. Letter. Eyes scan. He sighs. Heavy, overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions. He tries telling himself it doesn't matter. This is Gotham. Happy endings don't exist. Out of everyone. 'Paolo' seemed the closest to it. Perhaps – A single chance. Trusting the man (formerly known as Paolo) Nandez makes a move to leave Gotham. At least _Penguin_ has the decency to not steal his regular clothes. Taking a shower, he decides to jump ship. Dockyard. Explore lands unknown.  
  
Black car. Unmarked. Police. Passing by Ferry Terminals. Eyes of a broken stranger. Montoya drives towards the inner city. Barbara's Apartment. Her reason for being late to work. Renee poises her gun. No reply to the several minutes of knocking. Key. From a life stolen. No. From a life, _Montoya_ destroyed. Noise from inside. Quick-action.  
  
“Freeze!” Montoya says. “In the name-”  
  
Disbelief. “What the hell Renee?” Barbara groans, smoking a joint. Not quite in her right head-space. “Do you fucking mind?”  
  
Montoya sighs. Eyeing her bathrobe-cladded ex-girlfriend. “I tried knocking, it didn't work.”  
  
“Even after all this time, you kept my spare key? I should have you arrested, give it to me.” Barbara scoffs, snatching it from Montoya, harsh-glaring at her.  
  
“Or I could arrest you,” Montoya remarks.  
  
“You'd like that~” Barbara mocks, “go on _Officer_ arrest me~”  
  
“Don't tempt me, it's too early for getting high.”  
  
“Really? What are you my mother?” Barbara snorts, “look, don't worry about it, just a stressful few days.” The blonde takes a seat on the lounge settee. Montoya resists the urge to sit next to her. Gazing into each other eyes, Barbara frowns. “Why are you even here Montoya, just to question my smoking habits or-?”  
  
'I love you, I want to protect you, come back to me.' Gripping those thoughts, Montoya eyes Gotham's grey sky. “Your boyfriend's a killer.”  
  
Barbara snorts, half-laughing, half-choking on the joint. “Oh boy, that's rich! No, _sweetie_ , he _isn't_ , you, _want_ him to be.”  
  
Montoya sighs, turning to her. “He is Babsie, look at me, read me...just...just ask him about Oswald Cobblepot, ask him where he was the night, you were left alone, I need you to trust me.”  
  
Barbara stabs the smoke in the ash-tray. Well, _Damn_. “You can go now, I'll...consider it.”  
  
Frustration. Montoya steps backwards, eyes on Barbara. “Fine, that's all I can I ask, I guess.”  
  
Engine on. Seatbelt clipped. Mirror. Signal. Manoeuvrer. Foot to pedal. Passing by Il Ristorante, oblivious to the 'cook', bent over the dustbins. Oswald, finishes with the rubbish and oblivious to her, heads back inside.  
  
“Oi, new fish, get changed into clean clothes, you can't be seen in-house looking so filthy.”  
  
“I don't appreciate being called Fish.” Oswald says, doing as he's told. Dishwasher empty, he places all the clean glasses in the crate, carrying it to the bar. He stops, staring at Don Maroni.  
  
“...You see, Falcone is only the Boss of Gotham because people believe he's the boss, that's what this Arkham thing is gonna change.” _  
_  
Oswald eavesdrops on the entire conversation. Standing like a lemon, almost as though he wants to be caught. Deliberation. Information equating to currency more valuable than money in certain situations. Crate set upon the counter-top, loitering until empty. Dirty glasses. Crate refilled. Stalling. Taking his time to retrieve, taking longer than he should. All part of his plans. It works. Don Maroni marches over, friendly but deadly. Worth the risk.  
  
“Who the hell are you?”  
  
Feigning ignorance, Oswald stutters and thus begins a series of interactions.  
  
“Paolo Sir...on my mother's side, it's the side that I claim.” Classic. Drenching a lie in truth, far more effective than a lie on its own. Don Maroni appears to buy it, hook, line and sinker.  
  
“Here take it.”  
  
Maroni hands Oswald a small handful of notes. Taken with a tentative smile, he doesn't predict this. Is this really okay? Not that he'd ask such a question out-loud.  
  
“Go take care of your mother Paolo.”  
  
_**Breaking News just in: Balloonman update. Cardinal Quinn, accused of multiple sexual abuse, is the latest victim of the vigilante...**_ _  
_  
_Do not fear me, do not embrace me but welcome me with open arms, what am I?_ _  
  
__No! Don't! Stop! The father drags his son by his hair, throwing him down. “God will punish your science!” The silhouette yells. Small pale hands cling to the back of the shadow trench coat. Victorian grain. Snapshot in motion. Choir and incense. Kicked aside, beaten with a cane. “He is all yours now Father, do as you will.” Priest. The ugliest touch of sin. Forced. On his knees. Please! God! No! No! Any 'faith' the child has, stolen. There is no god now. How can there be? Whip. Whisper. Touch. Naked. Blood. Bruises. Tears. Dragged. Crucifix. Dreadful Back-room. Shunned by Nuns._  
  
No. Ed drops his mug. Pieces scatter. Break room to Lab. Cold sweat, ragged breath. Too awake for dreams or nightmares. Flashback? He collapses. “Edward I need you!” He calls out.  
  
“ _So now you call me..._ _”_ Sarcasm hinted sympathy. _“_ _It's fine...I'll look after you. I always have, I always will. I am you. You are me. One and the same, for all eternity._ _”_ Edward soothes, holding himself tight. As pathetic as he is, he loves himself so much. Clinging, stroking his hair. His own body? _If only_. Never allowing anyone else to touch him. Especially dirty old religious men. He could feel the sickness bubbling from within. Edward Nigma moves himself to the sink. _Purge the memories. Good boy. Again_. Tears and vomit. _  
  
"_ _Never again will anyone be allowed to take advantage of you. Not Kristen Kringle. Not the Priest from times past and especially not your grotesque father!_ _”_ Conviction. Edward cleans his mouth, washing away the evidence of his triggered past. Nigma vows protection of his happiness.  
  
_What stares back when looking in?_ _  
  
_Don Maroni throws his voice cheerfully towards Oswald. “You can't go around killing priests, not in public anyway."


	3. Riddled Without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Alert: Everyone is a little bit Rainbow.
> 
> Content Warning: Heavily Implied Castration, Het-smut.

Gotham plays time by different rules. Advanced technology beyond her years. One of many side effects. Abilities. Brain and Brawn. Resources. Experimentation. Unencumbered. Manipulation of genetic material, strengthening her own fluctuating control. Level route-cause. Flourish and thrive. Deaths untimely. The Waynes still have many plans in the pipeline and unexecuted. Mayor Aubrey James, with his ability and power announces the proposal of one upcoming. A new state-of-the-art Mental Health Facility in place of the decade-decaying Arkham Asylum.  
  
G.C.P.D. Heroes Slay Wayne Killer  
G.C.P.D. Rescues ATP Captured Missing Kids.  
G.C.P.D. Pops Balloonman's Plans.  
  
All Headline News.  
  
Ronald Danzar, corrupt parliament official found squashed in the middle of a residential road, killing a lady and orphaning her dog. Lieutenant Bill Cranston, corrupt high-ranking police officer, found splattered near a bus stop. Two sets of size nine bloody footprints. Ruled out as suspects. Unidentified. Undetermined. Cardinal Quinn, splashed into Gotham River. Justice Dilemma. Found by two children, no older than twelve. Severed penis in one hand, knife in the other. All four hands, covered in blood. Twin grins of sheer glee.  
  
“Just when I thought Gotham couldn't give me any more nightmares, she never fails to disappoint.”  
  
Harvey throws James a look. “It could be worse Jimbo, they could have killed him.”  
  
“It's not much of a consolation Harv.”  
  
Ed forces himself _not_ to smile.  
  
Finally, the one near-miss. Saved by Balloonman's arrest. Full clean-up spans over several days. Government Officials relinquish some of their guard. Wayne Mansion feels more like prison than home as Bruce Wayne fights depression with an unhealthy cocktail of over-productivity, starvation and self-harm. Alfred despairs. Selina Kyle bumps into James Gordon often and all this in space of what feels like an eternity to poor Mrs. Kapelput. The underworld is shifting. Carmine Falcone is losing his grip on Gotham and rumour is rarely wrong in the hands of gossiping crime bosses. James Gordon, Ed Nygma and Harvey Bullock separate for the day.  
  
Il Ristorante.  
  
“Yes Mr. Gallo, no Mr. Gallo.” Oswald replies, mopping the floor. Fernando Gallo disappears.  
  
“Hey Penguin, could you get the clean dishes and dry them for me man? Thanks a bunch.”  
  
Oswald half-smiles, trying to ignore the nickname as Head Chef Lou, otherwise addresses him with respect.  
  
“Hey Penguin, me and some of the other guys are staying for drinks tonight, wan' in?” Lou asks. Nearly as tall as Nandez but not half as pretty. Busy black-moustache, matching messy mop-top and wedding ring.  
  
Oswald feels a touch of warmth. “I'd appreciate that.”  
  
Glasses chink and Oswald chuckles. Sharing trivialities, there's a lot of love and true friendship in the atmosphere. Hope flickers. Oblivious to them all, Don Maroni counts money in the back room.  
  
“Rowdy, the lot of them.” Frankie complains.  
  
“Ah, leave them be,” The Don says, “we got bigger Fish to fry, we'll need some of them for the grand opening soon anyway, just let them enjoy themselves.”  
  
Frankie knows better than to argue, no matter Maroni's mood.  
  
Lou whispers something into Oswald's ear. Beaming, Oswald hugs him. “Thank you for telling me Lou, I'm glad he's safe!” Letting go just as quickly, sipping red wine. “Are you two close then?”  
  
“Nandez is like my little brother, you know we were roomies before he upped sticks? No thanks to you.”  
  
Oswald rubs the back of his neck, a little shy.  
  
Lou laughs. “It's alright, kid needed to see the world, he's better off this way, stay with me for as long as you need and just work hard in his place eh?”  
  
“Oh I will! I assure you.” Oswald promises, shining with delight. Finishing his drink, he bows. “Thank you gentleman, it has been a most wondrous evening, I now have somewhere I need to be.”  
  
Some raise their glasses, some nod. Lou laughs some more, shaking his head. “I can see why Nandez speaks highly of you!”  
  
Oswald winks, toodle-ooing himself out.  
  
Barbara's home. James takes off his tie, hardened sigh. Marijuana. There are worst crimes. But- “What have I told you about smoking indoors?”  
  
Barbara jumps from her TV watching, taking several deep breaths.  
  
James winces. “Sorry...I didn't mean to-” Intolerance. Concern. Aggravation. He storms over. “-I don't want to have to worry about you too Barbara, the city is sick, sick in a way I hadn't realised...maybe we should never have moved to Gotham, this...city...it's poison from the top down.”   
  
“This city needs you Jim, you're the last hope, it's last hero...” A musical lie. No talk of Oswald tonight.  
  
“It's not how I feel, it's not how the city feels, the Balloonman? David Lamond? He's forty-eight years old Barbara, worked with disadvantaged kids his entire life! He's right! Government Officials...they're the ones who run this damn district and yet they feed off the weak and the innocent, the law does nothing to protect those who need it most Barbara and, I'm only one guy, not even Bullock cares.” Venting at his girlfriend, he finally breaks. Tears in his eyes. Today too much.  
  
Barbara moves to hold him.  
  
Knock. Knock.  
  
She stops. Arms crossing against the top of her short black silk dress. Hand to handle. “Jim?”   
  
Drying his eyes on his work shirt sleeve, he looks up as Barbara answers. In quite the suit, stands a man. The last man James expects to see. The last man James _wants._  
  
“Hello Jim, old friend.”   
  
James Gordon doesn't have time to reply as the gentleman false-kisses Barbara's hand. “You must be Barbara, you are even more beautiful than I imagined-” He lets her hand go, hand on heart, polite half-bowing. “-I am Peter Humboldt, lovely to meet you at last.”  
  
Barbara blushes at the charming stranger. “Oh stop it,” She giggles, playing around, “it's nice to meet you Peter, it's a pity it's not under better circumstances.”  
  
“Barbara.” James scolds.  
  
“Oh, that is most unfortunate, did something happen?” 'Peter' asks.  
  
“Jim has had a bad day, feeling emotional you know? Not that he'll admit it.”  
  
“Men.” 'Mr. Humboldt' scoffs, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Don't I _know_.” Barbara laughs.  
  
“That's enough!” James scowls. “Come on _Peter_ , I'll walk you out, we need to discuss that... _work thing._ ”  
  
'Mr. Humboldt' feels the pair of icy blue eyes burning into the back of his head, fully aware of the gun in Gordon's holster, he suggests the stairs. Gordon's eyes narrow. They use the lift, tension briefly simmered by gentle flute jazz pouring from the speakers. 'Peter' feels like a trapped rabbit. Doors slide apart, revealing the night-cladded streets in front.  
  
“Keep. Walking. Cobblepot.”  
  
Fear bubbles to the surface. Oswald swallows thickly. “I-I can explain, j-just let me e-explain.” He tries.  
  
James looks up, out of prying eyes, he shoves the smaller man against damp brick. “I told you never to come back here! Give me one good _goddamn_ reason, I shouldn't just shoot you right here.” He hisses. An empty threat. 

“I-I know, you have every right to, I-I apologise, I-I had nowhere else, I just needed to see you, t-there are things I s-should tell you, t-things you need to know!” Ragged breaths. Dangerous blue eyes. Such _intensity_.  
  
James tightens his grip, noses centimetres apart, deceptively sweet innocent green eyes reflected under Gotham's moon, like a deer caught in headlights. He _almost_ closes the gap. “No!” He pushes him away.  
  
Oswald slams back, breath hitching. James stops, eyeing Oswald before pulling on his hair. Another gasp, _desire?_ “Are you actually enjoying this?”  
  
“I- Look, that's not a fair question, I'm only human Jim.” Defensive. Honest.  
  
“...Do you want me to kiss you?” Wait...what? James catches himself off-guard, releasing his grip.  
  
“How brazen,” Oswald blushes, “I don't think that's a good idea...Barbara loves you and I refuse to become your home-wrecking side-piece but since you ask, shall I assume you trust me or shall I hand you my knife so you can slit my throat here and now?”  
  
“I wasn't being serious!” James yells. Defeated, he gives in. “Tell me what you know.”  
  
A gentle chuckle leaves Oswald's lips, gesturing to a near-by bench. James follows, listening with intent. Pondering Falcone's future retaliation if he discovers Cobblepot's true fate. Sitting on the bench, Gordon hears him babble on about war, incoming death, destruction and something about Fish Mooney. Falcone's name is thrown around and some other things that hit a little too close to home. No matter how true, uncalled for. Warfare. Politics and money? Talking...about – Caught off-guard (again) by a seductive whisper, sending shivers down James' spine.  
  
“Arkham.”  
  
Warmth disappears and James is left alone, eyes lingering on his former target until out of sight.  
  
“...I'm gonna need a cold shower.” He mutters, heading indoors.  
  
Ignoring the god-awful music, he walks the stairs, mind racing with thoughts. Why suggest it? Kissing...that man? That criminal? No. Nope. No. No. No. Wrong. All wrong. Yet, Oswald's alive because of him. James Gordon sits down, taking a moment to breathe. Head in hands. Barbara. Beautiful, soft, delicate Barbara...dangerous, oddly vulnerable, Oswald. Wait...What? _Nonsense_. Failing to surpress his thoughts, he continues his way home. Door unlock. He enters. Barbara is either sleeping or half-asleep. Either way, James insists on leaving her be. Tip-toeing the black iron spiral staircase. Water. Ice. Cold. Yes. No. Maybe. Bad day. Kissing Oswald, a mistake, one he is glad to avoid. Then why ask? He's there? Yes. No. Maybe. James grunts, irritation overriding all other emotions. Yes? No? Maybe? James turns his thoughts back to Barbara. Grateful for Oswald's reality check.  
  
Thirteen Lavender Road. Oswald stares at the large house. He struggles a little on stone steps. Knocking on the great grey door, greeting Lou's wife as Lou allows him in.

“I am most humbled by you both and such a lovely home you have.” Portraits of times past, few photographs, many obscure knick-knacks and a delightful collection of stain-glass plates. Oswald is impressed. Black velvet curtains, grey rose wallpaper, the house is _divine._  
  
Matildaa Trevisan. Lou's wife, a fine woman, tremendous soft voice and dark features. “It is good to have guests no? Please, come sit, I made calzone, plenty for everyone!”  
  
Dining room. Decorated much like the rest of the house with a few cobwebs in the corners. Oswald sits at the grey-glass round table to eat with the two, feeling grateful that once again, he is accepted into welcoming arms. _Delicious_. Mouth-watering. Herbs, spices – and the _meat._ Tender, succulent. Oswald moans. Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he eyes his hosts. Plate empty. Reaching for water.  
  
“Thank you for the meal, you have been such gracious hosts.” He says after downing his drink.  
  
“Lou, my dearest darling, won't you show him to the spare room?”  
  
“Come on Paolo, I'll show you to your room.”  
  
Paolo? Who-- Oh-Oh. Right. Oswald bows, hand on heart. “Of course, I am Paolo.” He chuckles.  
  
Lou laughs. Up the stairs, left, right. White door. Different. Revealing rainbow wallpaper and vibrant orange bedsheets. Oswald blushes.  
  
“This is where Nandez slept. I hope it's okay.”  
  
“It's...perfect.” Oswald stands in awe, beaming like a fool.  
  
Bathroom matches the rest of the house. Door lock. Water. Add Soap. Stop. Oswald undresses, taking the rubber duck, placing it on the water before getting in himself. “Right Lemon–” Comfortable, smirking, he holds the duck in his palm, “ –We have work to do. We are going to get home to Mama and repay these nice people for looking after us.” He evil quack-quacks.  
  
Chalky purple and orange. Gotham's sun rise. James wakes to find someone wrapped around him. Oswald? Slight panic. No. Blonde hair. Relief. Arms wrap around her tight, clinging to her as though she might disappear. Barbara stirs, humming, nuzzling against him. Hushing her, he steals a kiss, hand-holding, desperation. Barbara leans into it.  
  
'Not the worst way to wake up, smothered in lust from the man of your dreams,' she thinks, gaining the upper hand. She straddles him, kissing him deeply. James moans underneath her, without a fight. Yes. Yes. Barbara, more. _Please_. His heart. Sex. Love. Power. All of it – hers. Perhaps it's the way she moves, her moans, bouncing breasts, hair flick or the way he feels, hard and deep inside her – and all the time, trying to suppress thoughts of those terrified _gorgeous_ green eyes. Focus. Sensations. But- Nothing. Barbara finishes. He doesn't. 

“There's always tonight.” Barbara winks, giggling like a schoolgirl. One more kiss before breakfast.  
  
Early. Oswald and Lou arrive at work, changing into clean clothes. Oswald places Lemon next to his switch-blade within his locker and shakes Lou's hand. Morning preparations. His heart drops a beat when his eyes fall upon Don Maroni. Fear? Excitement? Both? How to use this to his advantage?  
  
Maroni takes his seat. “Today is a day of celebration!” The joyous Don exclaims, “for a very lucrative deal comes our way! A brand new restaurant, my friend, _your_ brand new restaurant and _land –_ that's where the real money is huh?”  
  
Fernando Gallo calls for fresh bread and _only_ the best house wine.  
  
Late. Bullock drags his partner by the collar. “Where the fuck have you been?” He demands, “you know what Jimbo? I don't care, we need to get to Arkham, we got another case, three murders in the space of a few hours.”  
  
“Alright Harv, I get it, easy on the rough-handling.” James complains, forcing back a moan. 'What is wrong with me? First Oswald...now Harvey!? It's the curse of Gotham, has to be, I just need a break, like I'd get one anytime soon though.'  
  
Like the world's worst kept secret, the GCPD knows Harvey Bullock loves to cut corners. The less paperwork, the better and most everyone (except James Gordon) agrees up to a point. On the other hand, like most other men (and some women) in their profession, Bullock, loves his police car. The one time his paperwork is immaculate centres around his 'Stacie'. Today is no exception.  
  
“There she is Jimbo, state-of-the-art, Hudson, full size American muscle Baby, front engine, rear wheel drive...and extra motherfucking turbo!”   
  
“That's...wonderful Harv,” James tries, “...But this is Gotham, not America, why do we need American muscle? Couldn't we have...I don't know...a Bugatti 73A or a Rover SD1, like the others?”  
  
“You shut your goddamn whore mouth you understand me? Stacie is a beast and she'll run rings around any fucking frog-eating, piss-shitting, fuel-spluttering, limey-bastard any day of the week!”  
  
James doubts it but decides best not to argue further.  
  
“Now, get in before I change my mind and make you take a hike to the crime scene!”  
  
Blues and twos. Pedal to the metal. Like all American cars. A fatal flaw. Corners and roundabouts. Even Gotham's roads aren't safe from her twisted presence and Harvey makes the hand-brake turn. No airbags. No seatbelts. No safety net. James takes a deep breath as Harvey 'parks' into the bay. James flashes Harvey a look. Arousal, fear or both?  
  
“Ed, what you got?” Locking Stacie shut, he crosses crime scene tape, feigning ignorance to James' flirtations.  
  
“I have a paradox for you."  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well Detective, a paradox is when you-”  
  
“-I know what a paradox is smart-ass, what paradox?”  
  
Ed hands Bullock a file. “These are the medical examiner's reports on the murders of MP Jenkins and his PA, both victims sustained fatal puncture wounds to the–” Emphasis. “–skull via the eye socket,” sounding so sweet and sinister at the same time, fingers making a poking motion as he speaks, “the weapon was some kind of metal spike”  
  
“Okay...so?” Bullock tries to ignore it, eyes scanning the materials thrust into his hands, Ed is one hell of a creepy son of a gun.  
  
“Zeller also has wounds from a metal spike. It's an extremely unlikely coincidence don't you think?” Ed continues, grinning.  
  
“So you're saying Zeller, Jenkins and the assistant were all killed by the same person?” Bullock asks.  
  
“It appears so, doesn't it?” Ed pushes the bridge of his glasses.  
  
“Okay but why–?” Bullock asks, returning the file, “–Why here? Why Arkham?”  
  
“Falcone's sending a message,” Gordon replies, “this is about the vote, it's about land and they got caught in gang warfare. My guess? Maroni struck first...Question is, who's the next target?”  
  
“How do you know so much all of a sudden Jimbo?”  
  
“What is both whispered and hushed, known but never said?”  
  
“Not now Ed, come on Jimbo, we have a friend of mine to see.”  
  
Internal, James groans. With Harvey at the wheel? He almost suggests walking.  
  
Taking a break from his kitchen duties, Oswald watches Don Maroni's crew carry large holder-bags. Cash or drugs? Side-stepping, he tries to get a better look.  
  
“The hell do you think you're doing–!?” Stealth roll. Critical fail. Fernando Gallo stares right into his eyes. Oswald forgets how to form a sentence, mouth-open, gawping at him. “–You were snooping you little worm! I told you the day I gave you this job, you don't hear nothing, you don't see nothing!”  
  
“I'm sorry sir, I do beg your pardon!” Oswald's open-palms shake.  
  
“You keep that snivelling nose of yours to yourself, understood!?”  
  
“Yes sir.” Oswald replies, sheepish. Mental planning A.B.C.D. – E.F.G. Four main, three backup. Opportunist. Next step. Approach all plans with extreme caution.  
  
Bullock puts the phone down. Wrong number and if it isn't – he doesn't care. Half-arsing his paperwork, he watches James from the corner of his eye. “Oi, pretty boy. You've been moping all damn morning, come on, we caught the guy, once again the city is safe, thanks to you, you should be less angry.”  
  
“We killed a guy Harv, another one, there has to be a better way of doing this.”  
  
Bullock laughs. “Gotham's either gonna make you or break you kid, no two ways about it.”  
  
James frowns. What to do? Tell Bullock about Oswald? Hell no. That's a death wish waiting to happen – and if he ever found out that he near-kissed him!? Visible, James facepalms. “I...got a lot of stuff.”  
  
“We all got stuff Jimbo but if you can't share it with a friend over a beer, then who can you share it with?”  
  
James looks up, sceptical. “...You wanna hang out? After work?”  
  
Bullock debates against using sarcasm. “Yes Jim, I do. Talk to me about Barbara, your latest guy-crush or whatever, you are my friend, even if you are a goddamn closet half-fairy – _and_ – before you ask. I'm a detective Jimbo, I _know_.”  
  
Shit. Does that mean he knows about _him_ as well? No, Bullock's mood doesn't reflect that speculation. “Unless you want to get in my pants Harv, that's a bold statement without proof.”  
  
“Haha, real funny guy, I ain't no fairy Jimbo but I bet you wish I was.”   
  
James doesn't dignify him with an answer. Paperwork. Fatal Arrest. Another one, first Mario Pepper, now the nameless assassin. He doesn't like this pattern. Another tough day ended in bloodshed. Still. The Mayor is protected. Safe, thanks to his quick-thinking _and_ Oswald's tip-off. Credit where credit is due, he supposes. Sighing deeply, he sprawls himself across his desk, head in arms. Mind full of 'what ifs', 'maybes' and 'if onlys'. Gotham is a heartless cruel mistress. A soul-sucking leech of happiness.  
  
Bullock stands, walking over to James, wrapping his arms around him. “It gets easier kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Absolutely HATE this chapter. SO. MUCH. I just...what is it fangirls say? 'Can't even with it' Yes, that's the one. I can't even with it. -bangs his head on the wall- Hopefully the next Chapter will be a lot better. Adios~ I'm done here! I hate writing Het! -Runs himself off stage crying in a beautiful and fabulous manner -


	4. Riddled with Dreams

“They make it sound like this Arkham deal is good for the city, but it's not is it?” Young lost eyes slow-dart between Alfred and Gordon.  
  
“No Bruce,” James admits, sadness welling inside. “It's not.”  
  
Gordon leaves. Bruce Wayne opts to pull another all-nighter, deep in research into the deaths of his parents. Alfred considers flipping between force-feeding, file-burning and strangulation, neither helpful. Allen and Montoya. Contacted by Mrs. Kapelput, still no word on her son. Case open and going cold, there is little more they can do. No new evidence to convict James Gordon. Yet. Unrelated; Failed ransom. Another mother looking for her lost teenager. Fast dead-ending, no leads on his friend either.  
  
Celebrations. Parties. Sponsorships. Luxuries the impoverished and destitute cannot afford. Gotham Gazette. Wayne Industries hosts Charity Luncheon. Don Maroni slaps his hands together. Timing perfect. Overshadowing his own Grand Opening. Hidden in plain view.  
  
Soft orange bedsheets smell like home rather than Nandez. Oswald's fingers drum on the pillow. Turning over. Facepalm. Gordon. A kiss? Yes! Maybe! No! Groaning, he buries his face. Even with Barbara's permission, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot doesn't, can't and _won't_ share. Needing sleep, he rolls over onto his back, staring at the white-rose painted ceiling. Silent fingertips tap together. Eyes closing.  
  
_The Pier. Jim kisses him, deep and bruising. Hand on ass. Other arm wrapping Oswald close. Porcelain fear. Jim wishes nothing more than to protect him. This alleged criminal. This jail-bait. Tender touches. Oswald. Rare treasure. Hidden secrets behind powerless green eyes. Fingers tug rich fabric, daring touch. Forbidden skin. Oswald's eager. Corrugated damp wooden decking. Makeshift bed. Sturdy. Slight creaking under their weight as Jim lays them down. Waves gentle lapping at the base of the pier. Brown fedora and leather jacket. Harvey Bullock? No. Oswald Cobblepot wears it_ _ **better**_ _.  
  
Shy come hither emeralds beckon him closer. Jim loses the upper hand. Oswald rubs his knee against Jim's crotch. He pulls away to hiss out a moan, a playful glare aims at Oswald. Devil's smile. Oswald spread his legs, Jim returns the favour. Oswald sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. Jim worships the growing tent beneath black trousers. Oswald's sweet whimpers. Tentative hands reach for vaseline in his pockets. Jim's eyes widen for a second before taking the pot of gel. Stealing another kiss from Oswald. Harder. Brutal. Claiming. Jim's clothes floating on the pier floor. Magic.  
  
__Raw thirst. Positions switch. Oswald crawls to his knees. Mouth hovering over obvious arousal. Propping himself up to watch Oswald through half-lidded blue. Jim removes the hat. Eyes close, gagging on Jim's cock. Pubic hairs soft against his sharp beak-like nose. Hard to breathe. Fingers fondling swollen sacks. Orchestral moans around hard muscle. Jim clenches clumps of messy hair. Oswald's tongue, slow teases. Jim grunts. Increasing heart-rate. Oswald takes in the gorgeous detective under his spell. Jim hisses a breath. Grip tightening. Oswald is a mess of moans. Bobbing. Sucking. Licking. Kissing. No teeth.  
  
_James Gordon wakes with a start. Hot sweat. What. _The_. _**HELL**_? Strained breathing. Watch. Bedside table. Dim light reveals the hands. Barely two in the morning. Barbara, sound asleep next to him. Mind reeling. Fridge. Beer. Fingers rub his forehead. Cock desperate for attention. Ignore. Gulp beer. Glass bin. Bathroom. Freezing shower. Vivid. What. The. _**ACTUAL**_. Hell? 'Just a dream' He thinks to himself, water running over skin. 'Just a really _bad_ dream, I should...ask to stay with Harvey for a while. Yeah...maybe.'  
  
Oswald snuggles in sheets, groaning against the alarm. Four in the morning. An hour and thirty before work. Quick shower, dress. Cereal. Unbrushed short black hair. Taking care on the steps, he struggles past Lavender Road, traffic lights, left, right, uphill, down – Bright red telephone box. Enter. Receiver. Dial. “Hello, good morning, so...are we all set for Bamonte's?”  
  
“-We'll get the bags without a doubt, you can count on us.”  
  
“I best hope so – and one more thing, as many 'accidents' as possible – but stay out of the kitchens, no kitchen staff, I hope you understand.”  
  
“We understand.”  
  
“Good, three days including today, be ready, I should have more details tomorrow, good day gentlemen.” Oswald places the pay phone back on its hook. An arduous journey to Il Ristorante.  
  
Falcone wannabes. Loyal. Lowest-level. The Motleys; boots on the desk Guy. On the run from the Yakuza after he fucked up a deal oversees, receptionist, professional safe-cracker. Brick, all brawn no brains, burned-out tattoos, sitting against the wall, cleaning his gun. Lastly; Rickie, their leader, chewing a toothpick, leaning against the door-frame, knife in one hand, gun in the other.  
  
“Was it the homosexual freak?” Brick asks.  
  
Guy bursts out laughing. “Yeah it was, 'Good day gentlemen' Ha. What a snob! I wouldn't mind a go on his mother though, she could raise me right, if you know what I mean!”  
  
“Oi. Homosexual freak or not, he's paying us good money to rob Bamonte's, you two should be more grateful,” Rickie frowns, “it makes us good with Falcone, besides, we get this job and we'll be up for a promotion? And – I bet he'd look good with a bullet in his ass if you catch my drift,” he winks.  
  
Guy and Brick laugh harder.  
  
“Almost had us there, Geez.” Guy cackles.  
  
Oswald isn't sure why his blood boils, his leg hurts from walking such long distances but that's not it. Foul-temper for no reason? He's comfortable enough, survival instinct? No. Not it either. Work hard, head down, avoid Lou as much as possible, projecting his anger onto his friendly acquaintance, without it deserved? Not on his mother's life!

The Bill. Distant sirens. Cityscape music. Ed stretches to the sound. Six in the morning. Nigma, nowhere to be found. Shower. Scars. Dressing for work. Breakfast. Egg soldiers and toast. Tidy up. Take bins out. Wash hands. Dishes. Bag. Seven. Striding to work, his mind begins to wake with riddles. Good. At ease. Ten minutes later, he crosses the bullpen, taking the stairs to Forensic.  
  
“Ed, you aren't needed today, we have enough for your cover, take the day off.” Captain Essen tells him, stopping him in his tracks.  
  
Ed blinks. A day off? But he never – “Yes Captain, thank you Captain.” Salute. He turns on his heel. Puzzling. Time to look into the death of Oswald Copplepot. Secrets, especially those held in GCPD confidential crime files, don't stay secret for long. How to- Oswald's file. Finger-snap. Family. Mother. Mrs. Kapelput. Home. Ten Minutes. Directory. Listed. Not recognising the address, he takes the map from the radiator. Warm. Dry. A touch discoloured. Spreading it on his bed, he matches the address with the markings. Destination located. Calling a taxi, he waits for it to arrive. The journey takes an hour without a word to the driver.

The Cottage is how he expects. Quaint, nostalgic and incredible. Aura. Power-struggle. Reflects in the garden, roses of many colours. Ed loves the green ones. Purple. Not his usual colour but pretty none the less. Wiping his feet on the welcome mat, he presses the doorbell. There she stands, a vision of loveliness, long curly ageing blonde hair. Old green eyes, worn red puff. Mixed between flickering hope and total devastation. Pastel elegant pink nightdress, matching night-gown and fluffy pink glass slippers. Scowling at the tall, dark haired and handsome stranger. She moves to shut the door on him. “Now is bad time. Please leave. I have no mood.”  
  
“Wait Mrs. Kapelput, I'm here to talk about your son.”  
  
She stops. “Are you from Major Crimes?”  
  
“No...GCPD but-”  
  
“-I do not wish– GCPD. They killed my boy! _You_ killed my boy!”  
  
“He's alive, hard to prove but not impossible.” Ed states. Fast. Confident.  
  
“Do you...lie?”  
  
“No,” Ed promises, “I tell riddles not lies, I can help you find the truth you seek.”  
  
“...Come in,” a long pause, “no choice but try to trust you.”  
  
WellZyn. Wayne Industries Subsidiaries. Stan Potolsky. Alarms. Lock-down. Trapped. “This programme was shut down–!” He screams. Panicked footsteps. Armed guards. Bosses. “–This isn't over!” Smoke bomb. Bullets fly. Coughing fit. Dodging them in the chaos, he steals as much Venom as he can. Success, not worth the product failure. Destroying many more. Significant dent to their resources. Not even months ago, the insufferable nightmares cause him to cut off his own ear. Revenge. Justice. Gotham University, a last ally on this forsaken island.  
  
Gold painted nails drum on the bar as Butch Gilzean watches his regal black Queen like a love-sick puppy. “She was...nice, a pretty girl boss.”  
  
“I'm not looking for a girl Butch–” she signature tut-tuts at her latest audition, “–I'm looking for a _weapon_.”

Target. Carmine Falcone. Butch frowns, he knows she's playing smart but – worry. He whacked her last rent boy after Carmine gave him a beating, under _her_ orders. She looks after herself. She doesn't _need_ him or _anyone_ watching her back, still. She asks him to jump. He'll jump, no questions. “I'll make you some tea.” 

“Make me something stronger, oh and Butch?” She places a kiss to his lips. Male heart pounding. Immobilisation. “You're a good boy.”  
  
Fat cheeks redden. Butch excuses himself to the bar. “May I get a drink too, your Ladyship?”  
  
Fish laughs, waving him off. “As you wish, _don't_ get drunk, none of my cheap booze either.”  
  
Wait – Miss Mooney has cheap booze? When? _How_? Butch hurts himself in his confusion.  
  
_Picture perfect._

Ed grins. Returning the most recent oil painting of Oswald next to the candlesticks on the mantle-shelf. Invite. Ed Nygma steps into Mrs. Kapelput's kitchen. Relaxed kosher. Warmth in his chest. Admiration for the organisation. Out-of-his depth but so desperate to learn more about the lady and her _adorable_ son's way of life. Emerging, with tea served in best china. Ed steps aside, following her to the living room. Coffee preferred but – a single sip. “Wow. thank you Mrs. Kapelput.” Dream tea. Ginger and Honey.  
  
She gives him a wry smile. “Tell me, where my son is?”  
  
Ed Nygma bites his lip. Cup. Saucer. Coaster. “I think...he's in Gotham, somewhere.”

“Hm. If so, why does he not come home, he always comes home!” Words followed by mutterings in swedish. 

Picking out a few words, Ed tilts his head, deciding to keep his bilingual traits a secret for now. “...I can't be sure, I have theories; What is darkest, coldest, lightest and warmest?”  
  
“Homeless.” Gertrud sighs. Surprising Ed and Nigma.

 _Oh! She's just a_ _**delight**_ _!_

“You. Find him, give him money, min fattiga lille äskling...”

Another day, another debt paid. Foul-temper dispelled. Oswald walks home with Lou, half-listening to him drone on about the day they've shared. Overworked and Underpaid. 

“...And Gallo, what a pain in the ass he is no?” Lou laughs.  
  
“Oh...yes quite, wouldn't mind being the boss of him.” Oswald replies, rewarded by a pat on the back.  
  
“You're gonna go far kid!” Lou laughs.  
  
“Aiming for the King of Gotham.” Comment, flippant.  
  
Playful. Lou ruffles his hair. Taxi. Dinner. Home. Sleep.  
  
_Jim throws his head back. Giving into pleasure. Oswald changes pace. Gag reflex. Tears slipping. Oswald's addiction. Fingers grip tough thighs. Delicate never means weak. Pre-cum. Oswald's rhythm pleads for more. Jim isn't sure how much he can bare. “Stop.” He demands. “Get undressed, hand me the vas.”  
  
__Oswald pulls away. Reluctance, small sulk. Strip tease. Shoes. Socks. Buttons pop undone, shirt untucks, tie loosens, belt unbuckles, slipping loose and fly zips open. A beautiful mess. Jim smiles. Oswald's cheeks flame. Rosy red. Oswald is on his back, looking at the looming naked detective. Jim resists the urge to snort. Instead, he opens the vaseline stroking it over his cock. Lube coat. Eyes never leaving Oswald's show.  
  
__Oswald straddles Jim, stealing a kiss. Heavy blush. Stopping the kiss. Jim gives him the vaseline. Preparing himself in front of the other man is not his ideal. Jim wants to watch, reluctant refusal. Instead listening to shaken gasps. Oswald shifts, trying to reduce the pain in his leg. Jim shoots him a flash of concern._

 _“I am fine old friend, don't watch.” Reassuring kiss. Short and sweet. Reaching around himself. Oswald bites his lip. A generous amount. Fingers touching his clenching hole, already resisting. He presses deeper, fingering himself. Simultaneous embarrassment and unpleasant. At first.  
  
_ _Oswald adds another finger, stretching himself. Turning to slight pleasure. Jim looks Oswald from the corner of his eyes. Lip corners curling. Oswald looks so shy and needy. How, endearing. “Easy, that's enough, get comfortable, let me...”_

_Oswald pulls his fingers out. Jim handcuffs Oswald's wrists above his head, carrying them to the nearby wall. Legs lifted. The back of Oswald's knees rest against Jim's shoulders. Jim enters him. Bleeding, seeping, weeping. Green lust. Blue desire. In. Out. Slow. Rough. Deep. Gentle. Liquid crystal threaten to stain freckled cheeks. Jim pulls him in for another harsh kiss. Gods, it feels so good to be inside him. Oswald is a screamer and Jim places his free hand over his mouth. Jim loves the way Oswald looks at him. So desperate, vulnerable and completely under his control._

_Oswald doesn't protest to the rough handling, demanding more. The little masochist. Jim chokes him. Oswald's cock throbs with overwhelming pleasure. No voice, Oswald looks at Jim, begging him to come. No. Not until Oswald releases himself first. Hands stroke fine hair on pale legs. Oswald's toes curl, grip tightening on Jim's arms. He's close. They both are._  
  
Nervous laughter. Oswald sits bolt up-right. “...My goodness,” he snickers to himself, “well I never-” Shy giggles leave his lips. Breakfast follows his usual routine. For once, he sits opposite Lou who smiles at him.

“You seem chipper this morning Paolo, good night was it?”

Oswald nearly chokes on his butter toast. “Something like that, let us just say, a man can dream.” 

Lou laughs. The blush never lies.

Work as usual. Preparations. Bamonte's Rota. A list of names and duties split into two group. Sigh of relief. Lou assigned to Il Ristorante, out of harms way. Oswald rolls his eyes, his job today; Balloon Pumping. During his break, he makes another quick call to the Motleys. 

Stan Potolsky starts with the streets. One victim. Giving away the drug for free. Post Office. Gotham Gazette. Mayor James cuts Major Crimes Funding ahead of Arkham Project. Headline News.

“Are you going to Bamonte's Grand Opening Boss?” Butch's eyes shining loving caution, finishing skim reading the smaller article. 

Fish Mooney, seconds away from throwing her glass at the woman on stage, snaps her fingers. Butch knows his cue. Her sultry voice low. “If Maroni wants to advertise himself as an easy target for a petty war with Falcone, I'm all for it, I have more important matters to attend to, send in the next audition,” She orders, “I want someone _actually_ worthy by the end of the week.”  
  
Butch abandons the newspaper. Obeying orders. Familiar face. Fish Mooney's lips curl. Slight amusement. “Well, I suppose you'll do but can you be more than a pretty face?”

Selina Kyle slides from Mooney's rooftops. Broad daylight, onto Stacie's bonnet. Sneaking like a cat, she spots a chauffeur, wallet in hand. Across the street from him? Bullock and Gordon. Lunch-break. Prime opportunity. She snatches the chauffeur's wallet as Bullock takes a bite out of his burger.  
  
“Jim, Jim no. Jimbo! It's lunchtime!” He calls, mouth full. Brain clocked out.  
  
After the dream, James wants nothing more than to work, to focus his mind away from _those_ thoughts. He runs after her. Selina performs dodge. Natural twenty. James catches his breath. Distant. Alarms. Bullock swears, glaring at his burger. “Oh for the love of-” Giving up on his food, Harvey chases James outside a local shop. Catching him. Hands on knees. Wheeze.  
  
“What happened here?” James asks.  
  
“Jim, it's _still_ lunchtime, if you don't learn to clock off, this city is going to destroy you! No one is dead, let's just let uniform handle it!”  
  
Notebook. Flip. Harvey all but facepalms.  
  
“He was after milk...like lots and lots of milk, I tried to stop him but he broke my baseball bat with his bare hands...look.”  
  
James takes notes. Splintered in _half_. “Did he take anything else? Do you have CCTV?”  
  
“He pulled the A.T.M and took that too, yeah, I'll get you the tapes.”  
  
Black veins. White-shot eyes. Pupils dilation. Inhuman strength. The A.T.M. rips from the wall as if paper sheet, carrying as if a mere rucksack, leaving the shopkeeper, cowering behind the counter. Tiny shards of glass, merchandise and splashed milk decorate the floor and pavement like droplets of immortal hail. Clean up in every aisle. Captain Essen pauses the screen, turning to the two Detectives in her office.

“A drug did that? Wow. Right, I'll give this to Ed for analysis. You two, find this guy and the drug before it hits the streets on a wider scale, Dismissed.” Bullock and Gordon watch her depart from her office. Forensics. Ed unlocks the door to her knocks. Meeting brown eyes, darker than his own. Captain Essen is a beautiful formidable woman. Long black curly hair just past her shoulders and heavenly glowing dark skin. 

“Captain, what can I do for you?”  
  
“Can you find out what this is and how it works and where it-”  
  
“-This is Viper, it says so on the bottle, I'll run tests, if I start now, I'll be done this time tomorrow, though my money's on WellZyn as I can't think of anyone else capable of producing such a drug, they have the best laboratories in all of Gotham-!” Ed near-flails, grinning sunbeams at the thought, he coughs, “-So you should start there Captain, thank you for my day off yesterday, I'll get to work right away.”  
  
Captain Essen nods. Pleased with his efficiency, she returns to her office. Bullock and Gordon already on the case.

Ed Nygma worries about fulfilling his promise to Mrs. Kapelput, his personal investigation taking a back seat. “Hello Viper, let's unlock your secrets shall we~?” He announces to himself, flicking the tiny bottle. Gas mask. Microscope. Thin dark-green liquid, moving in ways undocumented. Studying the analysis in-depth. _Fascinating._ Rats. Mice. Blood samples. Requires further testing.

CCTV photograph. Unclear but recognisable enough. Messy hair. Face somewhat unshaven. Jeans. Trainers. Jacket-hoodie. T-shirt.  
  
Bullock locks Stacie, stepping onto busy grey streets. Searching for the perp.  
  
“Hey, have you seen this man?” Gordon.  
  
“Oi, this guy, you seen him?” Bullock.

Person to person, searching. Pursuit looming fruitless. Proceeding with their efforts, Harvey turns to Gordon. “So. You wanna sleep at mine again tonight? Remember Jimbo, it's just until you're ready to speak to Barbara, but I got your back until then,” he doesn't wait for an answer, “I won't have you sleeping at your desk like you did last night. Whatever you've been dreaming about, I'm all ears.”  
  
James flashes him a slight smile despite dream-sharing off the table. “Thanks man, I'll take the couch this time.”  
  
“Oi, this guy, seen him?”  
  
“Have you seen this man?”  
  
Shared shrugs refuse to give up. Ten. Twenty. Thirty-three minutes. Both detectives approach a pretty young man, smoking on the steps of Gotham Bank. Shorts. High-heels. Loose tie, cheap shirt. Green eyeshadow. Black hair. Vulnerable frame. James ignores _all_ unprofessional thoughts. “Hey, I know him, that's Benny...for twenty quid, I'll tell you where he is.” His arms fold across his chest.  
  
“Make it ten.” James Gordon opens his wallet.  
  
Walking directions supplied, James notes the smell. Rancid milk, damp cement and piss. Empty four-pint plastic cartons scatter the floor. Stolen J. Sainsbury's shopping trolleys. Fire-scored oil barrels and cardboard boxes. Bullock coughs, face scrunching at the odours. Guns ready. Position. Aim.  
  
“Alright. Benny, G.C.P.D. Stand down.” James warns.

Paranoia. Addiction. Craving. Benny begs for more. Fast fury. He picks up the A.T.M. Ready to throw. Jaw-bone unhinging. Bullock barely bats an eyelid. Gordon's eyes wide. Bones. Snap, crackle and pop pending immediate collapse. Guts. Gore. Sheer weight or drug affect. Neither detective sure which to blame.

“Get the area secure and call forensic,” Bullock demands, “anyone but Nygma, that guy would have a fucking field day with this shit! Now let's get back to the station, if I'm not eating lunch, you're doing paperwork!”

James rolls his eyes. That's fair enough though, they both know it.  
  
“Is this the G.C.P.D or a suit fashion festival?” WellZyn's Legal Team. Harvey forgoes all tactful filters and Gordon fails to hide his amusement as Captain Essen glares at Bullock. His gentle hand places on his partner's shoulder. “It's alright, I've got this.” He promises.  
  
Bullock folds his arms. “Like hell you do kid, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's goddamn corporate scumbag lawyers, no way, I got your back on this one but I'll compromise and let you do the talking.”  
  
James removes his hand as the two sit opposite the over-sized group of WellZyn representatives and their lawyers.

“On behalf of WellZyn, we offer our full disclosure on the matter of our _former_ employee Mr. Stan Potolsky– ” James records the full statement as Harvey Bullock scoffs. “–He is, how do we put this? ...Unstable, we had to let him go, we have faxed all relevant information, including his personal details and all public projects, please if you need anything else, we are happy to oblige and assist you all in your future enquiries when requested.”  
  
“Full statement my left testicle,” Bullock mutters, strict for James ears, watching the horde of business suit leave in single-file, “they _absolutely_ know more than they're letting on, fuck it, come on kid, it's home time, you're paying for kebab.”

 _Oswald's face clenches with pleasured pain, unable to take anymore. His dick erupts hot white ribbons, covering them both in his sticky orgasm. Jim grunts and groans, spilling himself into Oswald and pulling out.  
  
“You're a pretty little manwhore Oswald. My slave for life.” He whispers. Oswald turns to smoke.  
  
What the-- He's no longer on the pier, instead, in the G.C.P.D. More specifically, the morgue. His blood running cold as his fingers touch Barbara's face. Lifeless blue lips, cool to touch. He feels a chill as he's pinned against the wall. Without clothes.  
  
“James 'Jim' Gordon, you are under arrest for the suspicion of murder of Barbara Kean, you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something you may need to rely on in court, anything you do say will be given in evidence.” Harvey Bullock states, metal handcuffs clicking Jim's wrists. “Can we please get some trousers for this guy?”  
  
This...is a mistake right? Barbara can't be dead, she _ _**CAN'T** _ _be! How? And he's responsible? What? No. This isn't right! Panic sets in, he was just with Oswald, how –? Is this Oswald's fault somehow? He takes a deep breath. “Let me see her Harv! I need to see her! I didn't kill her you have to believe me! I didn't! I didn't! Barbara! Barbara!”_

_He's back in the apartment, Oswald Cobblepot tied to a chair, gagged. Once again, dressed in Harvey Bullock's clothes. Green eyeshadow. High-heels. Jim moves to untie him._

_Barbara pulls a gun. Jim's gun. “Don't.”_  
  
_Jim eyes her. “Put it down, please Barbara, don't hurt him, you don't have to do this!”_  
  
_“He stole you from me, I absolutely must do this Jim, for you, to save us. It's alright, I'm only going to shoot him in the dick, I promise.” She giggles._  
  
_Oswald's forehead sweats with fear, trying to struggle out of his restraints. Jim dashes to grab the gun. Trigger pulled. Bullet to chest. Self-defence. Barbara's body stumbles backwards against the glass. It disappears. She's falling. Falling. Falling._

_Jim runs to the window to reach her. He can't. Oswald is gone. Jim, left alone in the eerie midnight apartment._

Gordon wakes screaming from Bullock's couch. 

Bullock reaches for his gun, wide awake, in his blue-stripe pyjamas and matching floppy night-cap. “GCPD! FREEEZE!” He yells, jumping out of bed. James. Just James. Lowering the gun, he places it on the cheap-ass coffee table. “Hey, it's okay kid, you're okay.”  
  
James clings to Harvey. Bullock blinks but doesn't pull away, holding the other detective tight. “You're okay kid, you're safe.”  
  
Tensing a little. James prattles on about Barbara, accidentally name-dropping Oswald.  
  
Suspecting nothing, Harvey strokes Gordon's hair. Brain clocked-out, fussing over Jim's wellbeing. “You killed Cobblepot remember? It was a just a dream, Barbara's still alive, maybe you need to see her Jimbo.” He soothes, placing a kiss on his forehead. “Hoes before bros right?” He winks.  
  
“I'm pretty sure it's the other way around Harv,” James smiles, resting his head on Bullock's shoulder.


End file.
